Just the Worst Time of Year for a Journey
by Alexis Machine
Summary: A FaithWes story that's told by a nice trip through Faith's thoughts. Sort of like that movie, set inside Reagan, only not.


Gentlemen, behold! This story garnered no profit! All for fun.  
  
Yeah, Joss Whedon owns all the stuff in it.  
  
Except for the shirt. That's mine, Steve!  
  
Okay, the shirt's yours. The rest is his and Mutant Enemy's, though.  
  
Note--Something different, a little off the beaten path. Was fun to write, in any event. Kind of different than the other stuff I've put out there before. Considering, for my next attempt, "Diary of a Green Man". Ooh, reams of pages of sweet, bitchy Lorne-cakes.  
  
****  
  
"A cold coming we had of it,  
  
Just the worst time of the year  
  
For a journey, and such a long journey:  
  
The ways deep and the weather sharp,  
  
The very dead of winter."--"Journey of the Magi" by TS Eliot  
  
There wasn't much to do in a graveyard, so she sat on the hood of Wes's black SUV and watched him, silent and still as the tombstone he knelt in front of, and those that were crowding around like a quiet, subtle army. He blended in, grey turtleneck, faded jeans, sort of a buff jacket, and could have been a slightly scruffy ghost or scratchy voiced angel holding vigil. This graveyard was nice and green, flowers on the trees around popping like a whole battlefield of gunshots in the early spring and trying to overwhelm the graveyard's natural, somewhat sinister air. Faith'd liked the other one, farther north in California and than good old LA, a whole lot better. It told the unvarnished, monochromatic truth.  
  
She sat away from him, here, out of respect. The nervousness had passed quick, all things considered, and he did take care of her when her eyes rolled back up, showing whites, and she got the shakes. He'd never let her swallow her tongue, and Faith really appreciated that. He was a good man, she guessed, but it was in that weird, morally ambiguous way with lots of shading and elusive shadows. Like that really cool picture of Jesus laughing--a really fucking A picture--except... at certain angles it looked like He was grimacing in despair--a sort of an image for the Passion and God hadn't THAT been a hell of a two hours in the dark, leaned heavy against Wes's warmth--creepy. Wes could be like that, too, ideal boyfriend one minute, and drunken, kind of scary nihilist the next ,and then she just held him really tight and it wasn't like he was going anywhere. Wasn't like mom's boyfriends, they'd been that particular brand of lecherously fat and hairy bastard, for the large part, and even if he was a hell of a lover Wes wasn't particularly lecherous. More like Jerry, the grandpop she'd liked, more than mom, really. He'd drink and get quiet so he could forget the metal in his head and the steamy, nasty place he'd got it--Faith'd read about it a little in her year of highschool, tantalized and terrified all at once by what few motes Grandpop'd offered--and she wondered what parts of the jungle, all rubbery vines and stinking mud, that Wes was trying to make numb. When she laced her arms tight around his chest--nice and deep, none of that bird shit, nowadays--she smelled the smoke and woody whiskey under the gentleman's cologne, an underlying of Grandpop so strong that when she asked if he was okay the eternal six year old in the back-room of her skull always expected Grandpop's rough, Jersey accent (old Jersey boy, from down south aways), bristly like his thick jowl, to rasp out, "5x5, baby, give me a minute." He was a cool grandpop, even though Faith hadn't seen him since--damn, she'd been about ten and the foster homes had got going good. But yeah, he was a pretty good grandpop and Wes was a pretty good boyfriend.  
  
He was laying roses on the grave, now, white ones for chastity or death, Faith forgot, sometimes. Maybe both. Floral arrangements weren't her strong suit, so it was good she'd never thought to open a flower shoppe. She noticed the roses because he'd left tiger lilies at the grey graveyard in California, bright and violently orange against the neutral tone, vibrant, all fire and black whorls providing contrast that was both heavenly and hellish. That chick, the evil lawyer bitch, Lilah, hated roses--Faith like them okay, but the tiger lilies were way cooler, so maybe Faith and Lawyer Bitch did have something in common, who'd have figured? He'd told her about that when they were ballroom dancing, which Wes swore she would learn to love in time. Kind of sucked. He'd worn the Hawaiian shirt that Lilah the Lawyer Bitch had given him for his birthday (dealing periods suck too, but they're necessary, and it had been major)--black silk, flowers, Faith liked to think they were tiger lilies, too, but they were really just amorphous blobs of tropical fire exploding like wild passion--and God it felt so good against her cheek. The only part of ballroom dancing she'd liked was how good it had felt against her cheek. Smooth, like a baby's skin, smooth like the expensive sheets he and Lawyer Bitch had slept on, and like they had not much money to afford now, just a little more thanenough to get by. She'd gone close to her gravestone, Wes was folded up, mourning, and touched her fingers to the cool, hard marble, more to make sure it was tangible and she was really dead than anything else. Jesus wept--not only did her eyes read it, her fingers did, and they always told true, even when oculary analysis lied... just a touch puzzled at that odd choice of epitaph, amongst all the other gravestones. When she'd asked, later in the SUV, much later, halfway to Phoenix later, his response was choked and throaty, "I implored Him cry because no one else would." But Faith knew this was a lie, and had both tasted the proof on his cheeks and heard mumbled testimony to its falsehood while he slept. But she had nightmares too, pretty frequently, not enough to ring her eyes black like Wes's, but the sweaty, druggy holdovers from prison and Orpheus could be cruel, and he was kind when they were, so she repaid the favor.  
  
Faith'd only met this dead girl, Winnifred Burkle, briefly, an even shorter amount of time than she'd spent getting to know Lilah the Lawyer Bitch, who'd reminded her way too much of Gwendolyn Post--hereafter known as Watcher Bitch, to distinguish, as there could be only one Lawyer Bitch--all cool evil and crisp business. This girl was nothing like that. Considering Lawyer Bitch, and Faith herself, if she was being honest, down in the dark and slimy bottoms of her heart it was surprising that Wes had been so into this chick... or was it? He laid the roses with a tenderness that Faith'd known only recently, since coming back to LA after Robin's European tour (25 different ways to make history boring--should've hit some of those cool ass discotheques), a gentleness that bordered on reverence, soft as his breathey voice, that sexy, creepy, pitiful rattle at the back of his throat, when he slept, a touch that oculd be so teasing and so holy, plush lips and rough stubble stimulating her belly and thighs, making her explode like the flowers on that silk shirt, his lips rolled over her skin as smooth as that shirt, black silk, smooth silk, delicious, cool, sinful silk. She shivered, watching those magician's fingers trace the numbers like she'd done on Lawyer Bitch's grave, 1976, then resting on the dash, oh, Faith's heart raced, and 2004. Not a baby, but young. Faith felt old and worn out at 23, tough leather, just a little fitfully glowing red ember peeping out from the grimy, clouded lantern. Just a baby, by anyone's terms, but a soul as old and weathered as any of those cracked ruins Robin'd shown her in Rome, still standing strong, centuries later.  
  
How ancient, how scarred, then by Time's ravages was Wesley-Boy's soul? At least the pyramids, worn down by eons of wind and sand--Faith knew those were pretty old, older than Kakistos, even (and that name still sliced in her brain's soft tissue like the razors he'd used on her first Watcher), and it would've been cool to see the Great Pyramid, Last Home of the Kings, but she'd jetted before then... it had gotten a little too close--but so intricately arranged and brilliantly designed that they'd not fallen, and probably never would, even should the end of all things burn the rest of the desert into glass, her guts told her this much and, hey, they never lied when she was hungry. Of course, what did a twentysomething girl's guts know about the universe's final destruction? Well, the innards in question and about a hundred different varieties of Druid held their opinion in high regard, so Faith just sort of trusted them on principal. Besides, they were her guts, after all.  
  
He was sobbing openly and rain fell on the desert, he hated to cry so much, loathed doing so where anyone, even those he trusted most, could see him. He'd broken down on her shoulder once, a single, open moment, more precious to her than all the great sex they'd had and could ever have, and flooded her with tears over how that poor, bald bastard Gunn had turned out, and Faith felt it too, even if she hadn't known him that much. Seemed like a pretty cool dude. Wondering idly if he'd cry for her when she died, and wondering also if this wonder was a sin, Faith leaned on Wes, felt the vibration of his sobs and the dull, steady beat of his heart, "You gonna be okay, dude?" He didn't answer, so she slipped her arms around his waist and squeezed, hoped he didn't turn outl ike that gerbil, the one little pet mom had conceded and gotten her when she was six. Faith'd handily repressed that memory and most of the month before it, still one of the longest months in a life that was already like a frayed pants leg. He made a high, plaintive, keening noise that she hated, because he was so strong, and because he hated it, and she murmured against a rough cheek (Grandpop, again) that smelled sharp, sweet and manly, English Leather, and tasted like the salt ocean, "It'll be 5x5, baby, it'll be okay."  
  
They stopped at a diner, later, one of those greasy, nasty truck stops that dot the South, and Faith loved them because of all the smoke and sweat and uncategorizable sticky shit on the counter, reminded her of divey spots back home, and so did the heavy, no-way-can-it-be-healthy food. Wes's nose always crinkled up in those places because his home smelled like lemons, or at least all the English places Robin'd took her--not like that, conservative man, only on the bed, in the shower if he felt really, really zesty, only rarely--smelt like lemons and it was a good smell, but not precisely homey to the daughter of a drop-out gearhead and his 16 year old trailer park honey. He was himself, again, quiet, wistful, sad, but a mix of comfortable that could be pulled on like the fluffy, pink sweater she'd had since ninth grade and exciting like the leather pants that slunk around the curves of her ass like the country song that wailed steel guitars out from the jukebox, drew truckers' and cowboys' attention. He didn't really enjoy the huge, thick, juicy burger Faith'd ordered him, but not everyone could have great taste in food, she figured (corned beef... yuck) but at least his musical preferences were listenable out across the vast miles of America (I hear America singing, no, more like Queen, Pink Floyd and--stairway to--HEAVEN, Led Zep). They'd talked small and he'd unleashed that wonderful, charmy English smile on the toothless waitress, he'd have strong black coffee, yes, I'm sure, no cream, no sugar, and Faith would have another beer. Really shitty stuff, but it was cold and frothy and not too expensive. They'd set out in search of a motel, but at 11:30 Faith suggested tehy sleep out and, after making love like the ships at Salamis while a billion fire-flowers exploded on the black silk above them (so smooth, so smooth). Wes settled down into her arms for pillow talk, gentle fondling, things she'd never imagined until Robin, thought they were something for weak little pink-princesses, like B (big girls, they don't cry-yie-yie, they don't cry), but now closeness and warmth helped thoughts get slower and eyelids get heavier. She'd lay down on the beach, now, and let the salty waves wash over her head.  
  
"You're rather unusually quiet, tonight... what's on your mind?" His mind was on a beach, too. He could hear the mermaids singing, sweetly, each to each, lulling him to sleep, wondered if anyone else heard them, and if he would drown, tied in seaweed both red and brown.  
  
"Nothing much, you know me," she kissed the puckery scar on his deltoid, one of the ones she liked best of all, shiny, darker pink against his skin... memory escaped her as to whether this was one of hers or not, but that seemed like a pretty cool idea. "You know me... air under the hair."  
  
"Now that's a foul lie," he patted her buttocks' firm curve, "and we can't be naughty and lie, can we?"  
  
She feigned innocence, "Why not, Professor? Will being a bad little girl hurt my grade?"  
  
"No, I just haven't the energy to spank you. And it did seem as if your mind was on something."   
  
"Just your black shirt, Jesus I love that shirt... haven't seen you in it for awhile, now."  
  
"You're not likely to in the future, either. I believe it was in one of those bin liners we donated to the Salvation Army."  
  
"Wow, some bum's gonna look swanky at the luau."  
  
"I hope he enjoys it, hope he's not too drunk to enjoy the roast pig." They slept, then, dreamless, deep.  
  
It took them a couple of weeks to get to Boston, sort of an American road trip, lots more fun than the European one, but that hadn't really been Robin's fault, had it? The Professor Higgins shit really didn't work for Faith. She liked clubbing, dancing, weird sexual positions, and Robin liked historic monuments, lots of culture and really nice bedsheets; no arguing with those, though, especially the reddy ones in Paris--he'd kind of freaked when she said it was like sleeping on a great, big tampon. The little apartment was way more upscale than what Faith'd had growing up, aluminum housing communities a little too close knit for comfort--wall to wall domestic violence and little, fuzzy TVs and Hamburger Helper, if mom got lots of tips--and less classy than what Wes had grown up in over the Pond, but as the boxes were unpacked it was becoming home, afte rall. He was in the bathroom and she could hear the shower's steady drum, thought about joining him but no, not right now, got to finish this last box. Blue fluff caught her eye, and she picked up a little stuffed bunny, a little--hell, a lot worse for the wear. Skinny, shivery fingers on a corpse's hand traced up and down her spine, the opening notes of an Orpheus relapse. It'd been a while since the last one. It had been kind of rough, but as kind luck had it her tongue and lips were still of one piece, respectively. Faith tucked the little plush toy under one of Wes's old turtlenecks, sort of a median between blue and grey--a few shades darker than the bunny's baby azure--and tuckered out, he'd worn it painting, sometime in the past, and laid on the bed, curling involuntarily in to the fetal position as the cramps lanced up her belly and thighs. He was almost done. The water had stopped--he never sung in the shower, so Faith guessed that scar was good for something--and it wouldn't be much more than cramps and goosepimply little chills until he got out to her, no convulsions or vomiting, yet. And so they dealt, one foot in front of the other, a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. 


End file.
